


Warm and Real

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/M, Mystery, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25994575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: Molly Hooper has been reading the stories of Sherlock Holmes all her life, and has grown to love the character as a treasured friend. But what would she do if she were, somehow, given the chance to meet the man himself? Well... she's about to get that chance.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 44
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have never been to England, let alone the Sherlock Holmes Museum. My representation is based on Google images and fiction.
> 
> I'm hella excited for this! Another damn WIP, but it just wouldn't stay put in my brain, it had to be let out! Hope you enjoy it!

> _Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa?  
>  Or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art?_
> 
> _\- “Mona Lisa,” Nat King Cole_

Sherlock Holmes is one of the most well-known fictional characters in the world. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s work has easily withstood the test of time, leading him to join the ranks of Shakespeare, Austen, Dickens, and Shelley. Their stories are somewhat outdated, pieces of it no longer relate to today’s world, but the enthusiastic and persisting love for the works gifted by these authors remains, even now, undimmed and unblemished. So, too, with the gripping tales of Holmes and Watson.

One such devoted fan was a young woman by the name of Molly Hooper, an avid lover of these tales since her childhood. Though a student of science, she had inherited a love for the written word from her late father, a former professor of English Literature. And Sherlock Holmes’ stories were so frequent a staple in her formative years, she felt almost as if she knew the man himself. The man hidden between the lines, behind the deductions and analyses, beneath the carefully cultivated façade. He came alive, somehow, within her heart and mind, and she began to think of him not as merely a character in a book, but as a friend. And in the presence of her friend, she, too, came alive.

It was Sherlock Holmes that saw her through her father’s death following a long battle with cancer, helped her cope with his absence, and urged her to pursue a career in pathology. Though Molly did not feel she had the fortitude to actively chase criminals, she _could_ solve murders. Thus, her path to becoming a specialist registrar began, and through diligent study, she earned a place at Kings College in London, the backdrop of the stories she so dearly loved.

Her first day in the city, she immediately set out to visit the Sherlock Holmes museum on Baker Street. She trembled with delight as she walked through the beautifully staged flat, her fingers caressing the vibrant, Victorian wallpaper. As she entered the sitting room, her eyes were immediately drawn to a sculpture near the fireplace. A life-sized statue of the detective, sculpted from glittering marble with great care and attention to detail. Every link on the chain of his watch, every strand of hair (which she suspected would be black, or nearly black, were he flesh and blood), she could even make out a faint, pinstripe pattern on the three-piece suit he wore! And, most disarming of all, his eyes seemed almost aglow, watching as tourists stopped to take photographs, or just gawk at the impressive cheekbones and patrician profile. He was rather handsome, Molly thought, for a man made of stone.

With a blush of embarrassment at her own gawking, Molly averted her eyes, and felt a sudden chill sweep over her, as though she had been doused with cold water. She rubbed her arms, and, almost reflexively, looked back at the statue. If she didn’t know better—which, as a scientist, she absolutely _did_ —she might have thought the full, white marble lips had curved ever so slightly.

Somewhat unsettled, Molly moved on through the museum, effectively distracting herself from that strange moment, then went back down the stairs and into the little shop. She grinned as she took in all the books and trinkets and memorabilia surrounding her, and even bought herself a small keychain in the shape of a deerstalker. Finally, having nothing more to explore for the day, she stepped out onto the street, and with a brief glance to the windows of the sitting room, she promised herself she would be back very soon.

* * *

It became something of a rewards system for her. With every midterm and final exam, Molly would treat herself to a day in the city, starting with a trip to Baker Street. And every time, she found herself drawn to that impossibly beautiful statue upstairs. She would take time to absorb everything in the flat, but always lingered on the face and figure of her fictional friend. He had always felt real to her, but seemed even more so now that there was a face to attach to her memories and imagination. Oh, she’d seen a few film adaptations, along with various sketches and renderings, but none of them quite seemed to fit. But this sculpture, in her opinion, was absolutely _perfect_.

By perhaps her third or fourth visit, Molly found herself actually _speaking_ to him. She couldn’t be entirely sure what made her start, but once she had, it felt as natural to her as breathing. Each time, she would arrive right as the museum opened for the day, thus ensuring a thinner crowd, and reducing the chances of her being overheard and subsequently committed. The curator always smiled and greeted her with a cheerful, “Good morning,” but otherwise let her be, busy with his own work. That suited her just fine.

She talked to her stony friend about mundane things. School, work, the one and only boyfriend she’d ever had, and the few other friends that were just as odd as she was. Not that she was particularly eccentric, but her field of study left most people a bit… well… _ill_. Only those following the same career path were able to stomach her enthusiasm for pathology, and since they were rather few and far between, her list of friends was quite short. Fortunately, Molly wasn’t one to be overcome with self-pity. She had chosen this, and harbored no regrets whatsoever. And if she sometimes felt lonely? Well, that’s what the statue was for.

Her life wasn’t perfect, but all in all, she was content.

* * *

The years passed in something of a blur, but at long last, she reached her goal, and received her diploma. She’d already been offered a position at Bart’s Hospital, which she had eagerly accepted, happy to be staying in London. Her work as specialist registrar would begin in two weeks, leaving her a bit of time to herself.

Naturally, the first thing she did the day after her commencement was make a beeline for Baker Street. In her eagerness, Molly arrived far earlier than usual, nearly an hour before the museum would open. She sat on a bench nearby, coffee in one hand, pastry in the other, content to sit and eat and watch passers-by while she waited. To her surprise, however, the door opened, and the curator poked his head out, wearing the familiar, cheerful grin.

“Morning, miss,” he said. “Had a feeling I might see you today. Come on in, just put the kettle on.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, excitement buzzing through her, but the manners drummed into since birth gave her pause. “Are you sure it’s alright? Because I can wait…”

“I insist,” his eyes twinkled, and he gestured toward the open doorway with his head.

Needing no further encouragement, Molly hopped up from her seat and followed him inside. They made their way up the stairs toward the staged flat, and she remembered her manners once again. “My name’s Molly, by the way.”

He grinned over his shoulder, continuing up the stairs. “Very nice to meet you, Molly.”

She waited for him to give his name, but he didn’t. _Odd_ , she thought with a frown, but continued to follow him. They passed by the entry to the sitting room, and almost reflexively, she turned her head to catch a quick glance at the statue. When she did, however, what she saw stopped her in her tracks.

The statue was… _gone_.

Molly looked around frantically, peering into each of the open rooms, hoping it had simply been moved, but it was nowhere to be found. _It might have been damaged_ , she thought with a sickening twist in her stomach. Yes, that was an unfortunate possibility that came with being open to the public. Confused, curious, and still a bit frantic, Molly turned back toward the room the curator had disappeared into, ready to demand answers. Before she made it halfway down the hallway, she heard one of the closed doors open behind her, followed by a deep, resonant voice.

“John, if you would be so kind as to…” The owner of the voice trailed off upon seeing her, and as she whirled around and laid eyes on him, her jaw dropped so hard she felt it pop.

The pinstripes… the pocket watch… the cheekbones.

“ _Impossible_ ,” she breathed.

There, in all his glory, stood a living, breathing, decidedly _not-made-of-stone_ , Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this story is practically writing itself. That said, this chapter isn’t the most thrilling, so please bear with me. The fun stuff will come later, but for now, exposition is needed. Happy reading!

Molly stared at the man in front of her, her neurons firing as her brain attempted to comprehend what was happening, while taking in every detail. Everything about him was high-contrast. The silver chain of his watch glistened against the dark blue of his pinstriped suit, perfectly tailored to his form. His hair was nearly black, as she had suspected, slicked against his head in typical Victorian style, making his skin seem paler than it already was. And his eyes, locked on hers, were a hypnotic mix of blue and green, vibrant and almost glowing against the black of his pupils.

His expression suggested a similar state of shock, though only she stood with her mouth gaping like a fish. At that thought, she closed it, swallowing hard. The curator chose this moment to step out into the hallway, his grin slipping into something more akin to anxiety. He shifted on his feet a bit and cleared his throat. “Molly,” he began, “meet Sherlock Holmes.”

There were several moments of silence in which they continued staring at one another, until he blinked, and the spell was broken. Molly gasped in a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, blinking a few times herself.

“How… is this possible?” she asked softly.

The man before her inhaled slowly through his nose. “That is rather a long story.”

“Tell me,” she demanded.

His eyes flitted over to the curator, narrowing a fraction, before returning to her. “I’m afraid there won’t be enough time this morning. I have only a few minutes before I become… well…” he trailed off, a flash of discomfort marring his features before he looked at the curator again. “John, if you would be so kind as to provide her with the basics, I will fill in the gaps this evening. I am sure there will be many to fill.”

The curator— _John_ , she corrected herself—rolled his eyes. “First of all, you’re a git. Second, you haven’t asked Molly if she _wants_ to be filled in.”

“God, yes!” she blurted out, earning a look of mirthful surprise from both the men. “I-I mean,” she stammered, ducking her head to hide her blush, “I wouldn’t mind knowing… the whole story. I don’t, well… I don’t have many plans today, none at all this evening.”

“Excellent,” said the man she was still trying to convince herself was real. He smiled at her politely. “Until this evening, then. Please excuse me, I must return to my post.” And with a quick bow of his head, he swept past her and John and took his place in the sitting room.

John sighed and dragged a hand across his face. “I’m sorry about all this. I had planned to tell you over a nice cuppa, ease you into it, but of course he comes charging in like a bull and…” He sighed again. “Anyway. I am sorry.”

Molly finally looked at him, no longer blushing, eyes set with steely determination. “I don’t understand what’s going on. None of this makes any sense. But if you’ll tell me as much as you can, I’ll do my best to keep an open mind.”

He nodded, and his smile returned. “Done. Tea?”

* * *

Just over an hour later, Molly made her way down the main steps of the museum, feeling a bit lead-footed, weighed down by everything she’d just been told. If she were to believe what John had said, Sherlock Holmes was never a work of fiction, but a real man. John was, in fact, Dr. John Watson, the detective’s best friend and partner (in a professional sense, though he said many had wondered). John was _also_ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a pseudonym he had adopted as he began publishing his tales of their adventures. The name also came in handy when their last case took a sharp, southward turn.

The case in question was the case of the third Holmes sibling. Kept secret from the world, Eurus Holmes was a remarkably intelligent, but dangerously psychotic woman, younger than Sherlock by just one year. She had been locked away in Sherrinford, an island fortress that was thought to be the most secure prison in England. It turned out to be the opposite, as Eurus had manipulated and brainwashed every guard, giving her the freedom to sneak out and play havoc on the lives of her siblings. Mycroft, it seemed, was her least favorite, as he was one of her original captors, along with an uncle. Sherlock, on the other hand, she seemed to care for, in her own twisted way, but that did not stop her from subjecting him to horrific games and tasks, designed to test both his intellect and his endurance.

Unfortunately, Sherlock failed his final test, which involved a coffin with a small plaque on the lid, reading, “I love you.” His task was to deduce who was meant to be in the coffin, and he came up with nothing. Eurus had punished Sherlock by injecting him, John, and Mycroft with serums of her own invention. These serums, it turned out, were more magic than science. Through them, she cursed each of them with different forms of immortality. Mycroft was trapped in an oil portrait, Sherlock became a statue by day, and John simply never aged.

“I suppose I’m lucky,” he had said in a quiet voice. “I can still have something of a life. I have to take some precautions, so that nobody catches on, but I can actually interact with other people. They can’t.”

These words had broken Molly’s heart, but also left her with even more questions. But there wasn’t time yet to ask them, as John had to open the museum, and Molly had in fact made plans with her friend Mary, an old schoolmate who was now a nurse at Bart’s. Being a few years older, she had finished her degree before Molly, and they hadn’t seen much of each other since then. Mary had played a massive role in getting Molly the position at Bart’s, talking her up shamelessly to the head of pathology, Dr. Michael Stamford. He was a cheerful man, and she looked forward to working with him, and for the chance to see much more of her friend.

Today, they would be meeting for an early lunch, then Mary would head to work for an afternoon shift. Molly grinned to herself, excited to see her again. She reached the door and stepped outside, but as she turned to walk toward the tube station, she paused, glancing up at the windows again. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there, having turned back to stone. She’d caught a glimpse on her way out, and for once, felt uncomfortable with the idea of approaching him. Now, standing on the pavement, she almost wished she had.

Shaking her head, Molly turned away and started toward the tube.

* * *

“Molly!”

At the sound of her name, Molly looked up and spotted Mary. They half-sprinted toward one another, colliding in a tight, lingering hug.

“God, I’ve missed you!” Molly breathed, fighting back tears. It had been ages since she’d had a proper hug—in fact, she thought it may have been right after Mary’s commencement.

“I’ve missed you, too!” she said with a laugh, and they finally parted to smile at each other. Mary had changed very little, thank goodness. Her blonde hair was cut shorter than it used to be, a sleek bob that ended just below her ears. But her green eyes and easy smile were familiar and comforting. God knows she _needed_ comfortable and familiar, after the morning’s insanity.

“Come on,” Mary said, mercifully interrupting her train of thought, “let’s go in. I’m starved!”

They went into the restaurant, a little Italian place called Angelo’s. Molly didn’t know how she had never been here before. The moment she stepped inside, she absolutely loved it. The tables were near enough to be cozy, but not enough to be cramped. At the front, right beside the large window, was the only booth, and by the design, she guessed it was a preferred spot for dates. The hostess led them to one of the small tables near the back, and gave them a pair of menus.

“Have you been here before?” Molly asked.

“Several times,” answered Mary. “It’s close to the hospital, and everything on the menu is delicious. And the owner likes to come out and talk with customers sometimes. He’s quite the character,” she added with a smirk.

Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, he’s actually an ex-con. He loves telling the story about the stranger who got him off a murder charge by proving he’d been in a different area of London, pulling a bank job.”

She blinked slowly, her skin tingling. _I wonder_ … “Does he know who it was?”

“Not a clue. He was in holding, and someone walked by and slipped him a note. Whoever wrote it said they knew he hadn’t murdered the victim, and that he knew where he’d actually been. Told him the only way to prove his innocence would be to bring his real crime to light, but they would only do that if he promised to clean up his act once he’d finished his time.”

Molly’s eyes grew unfocused as she processed this, the idea in her head becoming more and more concrete. It had to have been him. She knew him, through the stories John had written under his _nom de plume_. She knew that nothing would stop him from doing the work he loved, not even a serum that made him immortal and turned him to stone during the day.

“Er… Molly?” Mary’s voice pulled her back to the present.

“Sorry,” she gave a quiet laugh. “Interesting story. I wonder who it might have been.”

“I know!” her friend grinned. “Mystery, eh?”

Molly nodded, and the conversation shifted to Mary’s work at Bart’s, and her last relationship (which she had ended happily). She listened and responded, and had a wonderful time reconnecting, but Angelo’s story remained at the back of her mind. _Mystery, indeed_.

Fortunately, she knew someone who liked mysteries.

After lunching with Mary, and promising to see each other on her first day at Bart’s, Molly went back to her flat, needing some quiet and solitude to continue processing. As surreal as the events of the day had been, she found it surprisingly easy to accept them as truth. The stories had never felt truly _complete_ , in all honesty, as if there were more adventures to be had, more tales to be told, but the author had just… stopped. Now she knew why.

Once she got past the initial shock, it actually made sense. She pulled out her phone and ran a quick search for Arthur Conan Doyle. John’s features were almost identical to the portraits, though he no longer had the large, twirling mustache. _He looks better without it, anyway,_ she mused with a grin.

Then there was the matter of the “sculpture.” No one seemed to know who had carved it, and in such flawless, breathtaking detail. _Too_ detailed, she now realized. Even the magnificent Greek statues in the British Museum were not quite perfect. Their eyes were merely blank orbs, no irises, no pupils, no life to them at all. But Sherlock Holmes’ eyes, even in stone form, were unmistakably clear, with a depth and life that had instantly captured her attention.

Molly still had so many questions to ask both of them, but at least now she could remove, “Which madhouse did you break out of?” and, “What the hell did you drug me with?” from the list. Perhaps they were mad. Perhaps she was mad, too. Mad to believe them, mad to be going back, mad to think that any of this was real. But despite all her scientific knowledge and logical reasoning, something deep within her told her it _was_ real.

It had to be.

* * *

The hours until evening dragged on, and Molly growled under her breath a bit each time she looked at the clock on her wall. _Stop looking_ , she told herself, but following through was easier said than done. She finally gave up at half-four, deciding she couldn’t wait any longer. The museum would still be open until six, but she didn’t mind the wait. With no grace whatsoever, she scrambled out the door, grabbing her coat and her bag as she hurried out to the street.

Fate seemed to be on her side, and she managed to hail a cab in seconds. “221B Baker Street, please,” she huffed, a bit out of breath.

“Off to the museum, luv?” the cabbie asked in a chipper voice.

She grinned. “Yes, I am.”

The drive took twenty minutes, a record for cab travel in London, and she gave the cabbie a generous tip and a giddy smile for his service. She paused for a moment, looking up at the modest building, realizing it looked a bit different at this time of day. In the morning, the east-facing windows gleamed in the light of the sunrise. Now, in the shadow cast by the late-afternoon sun, the only light on the windows came from within.

She spied John just inside the shop, and started toward him. He looked up and grinned when he noticed her, and was halfway to the door when she walked in.

“Hello again,” he greeted. “You’re a bit early, but I expect you know that.”

Molly nodded. “I was tired of twiddling my thumbs.”

John gave a quiet laugh. “I know the feeling. Well, you’re welcome to wait upstairs. Sherlock is still… well, you know,” he lowered his voice, glancing at the few customers still milling about. “He won’t be _himself_ for a few more hours, so we’ll have time for a quick bite, if you’d like.”

Molly had to physically bite her lip to keep from asking questions, but this was not the time. “I would like that, yes.”

“Perfect. See you in a bit.”

The flat was quiet and empty, for which Molly was grateful. Tourists were a challenge to begin with, but quite frankly, there was only so much she could handle from people today. And she was saving her energy for later this evening.

Molly paused for a moment in the entry to the sitting room. There he stood, in marble form, holding his pipe in one hand, the other shoved into one of his pockets. It was a simple pose, easy enough to recreate every day, which she supposed was the reason he’d chosen it. Or had John made that decision? So many questions… but, she reminded herself, they would be answered soon enough.

Stepping as closely as the velvet ropes would allow, Molly looked directly into the eyes of her favorite fictional character. _Not fictional_ , she reminded herself. No, he was very real. But then, hadn’t he always been real to her? Hadn’t she spent these past years visiting him, speaking to him, confiding in him?

“Oh, God,” she muttered aloud. “I hope you didn’t really _hear_ everything I said!”

He, of course, did not answer.

Molly suddenly felt self-conscious, and wrapped her arms around her middle as she wandered away from the frozen detective. Having seen everything in these rooms many times, there was nothing new to catch her interest, so she settled on gazing out the window.

On the street below, she watched the people passing by. There was a woman and a little boy, no more than five years old. She guessed that the woman was his mum, going by her mounting frustration at his distraction and excitability. Well, London was an exciting place, even if this wasn’t the most vibrant corner of the city. Finally, the woman scooped her struggling son into her arms and carried him off. Molly chuckled to herself at the sight. Poor woman, _and_ poor boy! She hoped they might learn to get along someday.

Next, she watched a pair of young women, teenagers most likely, as they walked in almost perfect sync with one another. Their arms were linked at the elbows, and they each held a phone in their free hands, not really minding where they walked. Really, it was a miracle they didn’t run into anyone else, or absently wander in front of a moving car. Molly was grateful to have been raised by a father who taught her to love books, music, and the outdoors. She would never be a slave to technology, would never struggle to find entertainment away from her phone or computer.

As the girls passed out of sight, she turned her attention to an old man walking his dog. The dog was rather large, possibly a Labrador, all black fur, and bouncing with energy. Still, he (or she, impossible to tell at this distance) seemed to know his master could only move so fast, and each time he stretched the leash out to its limit, he stopped and waited. Several times, the old man patted the dog’s head, in an almost grateful gesture. Molly dearly wished she weren’t allergic to dogs; they were such faithful companions. Oh, well. If she wanted a pet, she’d have to make do with a cat.

Molly continued watching for close to half an hour, then she heard quick footsteps on the stairs. She turned toward the doorway just as John appeared. “I figured we'd do takeaway. Chinese okay with you?”

“Chinese sounds lovely,” she nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I had originally planned on having Sherlock's "stone time" lasting from sunrise to sunset every day, but the timing just didn't fit. I'll find a way to explain it out somehow, it just may take a few chapters to get there. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloody hell, and I thought the last chapter was hard to get through! This is why I excel at one-shots. The time you have to put into exposition and background for longer fics is just... painful. But as I said, this story simply will not allow me to NOT write it. So, here's another chapter, such as it is.

> _“Magic is just science that we don’t understand yet.”_
> 
> _\- Arthur C. Clarke_

* * *

“Right,” John rubbed his hands together by way of opening the conversation. They were sat in the kitchen, their food spread out over the table, using disposable plates and cutlery. The chopsticks that came with their meal were shoved aside, in favor of traditional utensils, as they required less concentration, and there was, in fact, a conversation to be had. “I’m sure you have loads of questions, Molly. Fire away.”

Molly popped a bite of dim sum into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. _Where to start?_ She’d been given the Reader’s Digest version that morning, due to a lack of time to explain properly. She swallowed her food, and finally asked, “When did this all happen?”

“Meaning the case with Euros?” Molly nodded. “Well, I don’t know how long she watched us, or how great her influence was on Sherlock’s other foes. But it was 1908 when we first became aware of it… of _her_.” John paused, his hands fidgeting with his trousers a bit, and his brow furrowed in… distress? Discomfort? Both? Molly set her fork down, realizing this was about to get even more complicated.

“The first clue that someone wanted to reach Sherlock came on the fifteenth of January, 1908. That day, every newspaper in the city printed the exact same thing. All news reports and other articles had been replaced with the words, ‘Miss me?’ Repeated over and over, line after line, page after page, until the last line on the last page, which read, ‘Play with me, Sherlock.’” A chill shot up Molly’s spine. John noticed and gave her a grim smile. “Basically my same reaction. Mycroft knew immediately who it was, and told us everything.

“She was… unnaturally intelligent. More than Sherlock and Mycroft combined. She had a knack for knowing things before they happened. And she had learned how to manipulate and reshape matter through… well, she called it ‘science,’ but it looked and sounded like… magic.”

“So you saw it?” she asked. “I mean, before she changed the three of you?”

“Yeah, she…” he came to a stop for a moment. “Well, better to explain from the beginning. Sherlock was never really one to talk about his family, but what little I did know, before Eurus, was that he had his parents, Mycroft, and during his childhood, a dog named Redbeard. And that was it.”

Molly’s brows knit together. “So, he lied?”

“Actually… he had forgotten her.”

At that, her eyes flew wide. “ _Forgotten_? How do you _forget_ your younger sister?”

“You’ll have to ask him that later,” he shook his head, taking another deep breath. “At any rate, it seemed she was tired of being forgotten, and decided it was time to _play_ with her brother again. Mycroft had barely finished telling us who she was, when a parcel arrived, from her. There was a note attached that said the same thing as the papers. ‘Play with me, Sherlock.’ And inside the box was a charge, set to explode in thirty seconds.” He gnawed on his lip for a moment. “If not for the quick thinking of both Sherlock and Mycroft, we would all have been dead. The flat— _this_ flat—was nearly unsalvageable. The basic framework remained, but the furniture and books, all our belongings? Turned to ash.”

“God,” Molly breathed, pressing a hand over her heart. “How awful!”

He nodded absently, not looking at her. “We took refuge at Mycroft’s estate for the night, then headed to Sherrinford. It had once been a castle for a duke, the Duke of Sherrinford, when Elizabeth I was queen. Mycroft said the duke tried to force himself on the queen, so she had him beheaded and took his land for the Crown.” John laughed a bit. “You know, I thought he was pulling my leg, but now I think it might have been true.”

Molly grinned. “Well, look at Elizabeth’s father.”

“True enough! But once she died, and James I took the throne, the royals had forgotten about it. Sherrinford was barely standing by the time Sherlock’s uncle, Rudolph Holmes, bought it for himself, fully intending to live there, once it was finished. That was close to the time Eurus was born. I’m not sure when or why he decided to change his plans, but instead of a residence, he turned it into her prison.”

John’s eyes grew distant as he hesitated for a moment, clearly unsettled by what he was about to say next. “I don’t remember every detail exactly, but I do know that Eurus started a fire in their home when they were young. At that point, it became clear she needed to be kept away from the world. Their parents had refused all his previous attempts, so he… well, he lied. He told them she didn’t survive the fire.”

 _Good God_ , Molly thought as her stomach lurched, and she stared down at the remaining food on her plate with disgust. How could she keep eating after hearing all of that? The Holmes family history was even more complicated that she would have guessed. And John, it seemed, was becoming more and more uncomfortable with sharing it. Poor man… he may have been, in some eyes, the least cursed of the three men, but it was still a curse. To live forever, never changing, unable to make real connections, not to mention having to witness the grim fates of his best friend and his friend’s brother. Molly couldn’t imagine how that must feel.

Shifting closer to John, she rested a comforting arm on his shoulder. “Why don’t I ask Sherlock about all the family drama, and you tell me what happened at Sherrinford?”

John’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief. “God, yes, thank you!” He took a sip of water, then shifted a bit in his seat before continuing on.

“We arrived at Sherrinford thinking it still functioned at full security, except for whatever breach had let Eurus out. Instead, we found the entire place under her control, and remodeled into her own twisted laboratory. The test subject? _Sherlock_. She wanted to see how he would solve various puzzles through deduction, but more than that, she wanted to see the way he cut himself off from feeling anything, an ability he always boasted to anyone who cared to ask. Although,” he added with a smirk, “sometime, you didn’t have to ask at all.”

Molly mirrored his smirk, then prompted, “Tell me about the puzzles.”

“Right. We were drugged, then taken to what was supposed to have been her cell. When we awoke, she was on the other side of the bars, along with the prison governor and his wife. She taunted us for a bit—well, taunted _Sherlock_ , he was really the only one she ever spoke to directly—then shoved the governor into the cell with us, and told Sherlock to take his gun. Once he had it, she pointed her own gun at the governor’s wife. Her instructions were for him to chose either me or Mycroft to kill the governor, or she would kill his wife.”

“Oh, God,” her throat grew tight.

“Sherlock held the gun out to Mycroft first, but he refused to take a life, so… that left me.”

“You didn’t…” she gasped.

John looked down at his shoes. “No, actually, I didn’t. I tried… God, I tried to tell myself I had no choice, that I was saving a life even as I took another. But I couldn’t do it.” He blinked several times and sniffed. “When I backed down, the governor took the gun and shot himself… and then Eurus killed his wife anyway, because it hadn’t been me, or Mycroft.”

He paused here again, looking up at Molly, as if to gauge her reaction. She felt like retching, was half convinced she was going to. _Thank God I passed on the wontons_ , she thought, and might have laughed a little at her private joke, under different circumstances. After a deep breath, in and out slowly, she whispered, “Go on.”

“Are you sure?” he leaned forward a bit. “I’m not as detailed as Sherlock, though I certainly remember more than he gives me credit for. And you look like you’re about to lose your dim sum.”

She almost cracked a smile. “I’m fine now. Please, keep going.”

With another nod, he did so. “There was a bit more taunting, something about our moral code, then she unlocked the cell and told us to follow her. She led us into a room with floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out to the sea. The room was empty, except for a table, and an envelope on the table. Inside the envelope were three photographs and a newspaper clipping. The photographs were of three brothers, Nathan, Alexander, and Howard Garrideb, and the clipping was about a murder. A man was killed in Ireland some years earlier, a month before each of the photographs were taken. He was shot from 300 metres with a hunting rifle. The police had never solved it, but Eurus did. One of the Garrideb brothers had killed the man, and she wanted Sherlock to figure out who.”

“Based on photographs and a news clipping?”

“Yes. And the gun,” he added, “she’d found the rifle he used. Sherlock and I both looked at it, discussed the details and specifications, and Sherlock noticed one of the brothers was wearing spectacles, which ruled him out. He said all his deductions aloud, and Eurus praised him, but then she… she added ‘emotional context,’ I think is what she called it. She pointed to the windows, and we looked in time to see all three brothers, bound and gagged, and dangling over the sea outside. They each had a little wooden sign hanging from their necks, with their names written out. Once Sherlock figured out who the murderer was, she said ‘justice would be served.’ In her mind, ‘justice’ meant dropping the murderer into the sea.”

 _Oh, God_.

“Of course, he solved it in seconds, and Eurus asked him to say the murderer’s name loud. When he did, she opened a compartment in the wall, pulled a lever… and the two innocent brothers fell. I sort of… snapped. I marched toward her, and was seriously considering strangling her, might have done if Sherlock hadn’t stopped me. I told her she’d killed the wrong ones. She seemed to think about that for a moment, then she pulled a different lever, and killed the third one, too.”

Molly shook her head, feeling the nausea begin to resurface. This woman was utterly _insane_. She would never be able to understand how a person could kill another person, let alone _five people in one day_. John was watching her again, and she steeled herself, certain the worst was yet to come. “What happened next?”

“Well… the next task was the coffin.”

She straightened a bit. “The one he couldn’t deduce?”

“That’s right. It was in the center of the room, opened, the lid set off to the side. Sherlock had a few deductions just from looking at it. Meant for a woman, bit over five feet tall, simple tastes, practical. Then Mycroft told us to look at the lid, which had a small brass plaque that read, ‘I love you.’”

Molly frowned; that was a bit odd. “So… who was the coffin made for?”

“Well, that _is_ the question,” a deep voice answered. Molly turned in her chair to find Sherlock Holmes, once again living and breathing, and standing just behind her. “And I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea.”


End file.
